The world came slowly in green, then in blue, until it settled on red. Rhys' chest heaved, but he was breathing. Which meant one thing: he's alive. His recent memories showed him nothing but the dark and a woman with a smile that made him not want to go anywhere in her periphery.

He had half a mind to think he already had.

As his senses slowly returned, he realized many things. One—he sat on a backed chair, his legs splayed out before him. Two—his arms were stuck to his sides, as if he's bound by thick twines spun around him and the chair's back too many times. When he looked down at his form, he realized one last thing—nothing tied him to anything. It's as if his limbs had decided one moment to stop moving and act like they were chained down. Was he...was that some kind of a containment spell?

A voice hummed in approval. "You're awake? That's fast," she said. The tone was gentle—kind even. She suggested they could be the best of friends, and that he could tell her anything. He would divulge all his secrets, and she would keep it to the ends of the world. But, as the colors melded and diverged in Rhys' vision—the blobs gaining more and more detail, sharpness, and focus—he saw her face.

She was the same woman who greeted him inside the tent before the darkness overtook him. His name. She knew his name—up to the last letter and syllable. He couldn't hide anything from her. He tried.

But...how?

How come she knew it's him while the Sovereign didn't?

A chuckle caught his attention back to the woman sitting in the middle of the tent in the same three-legged stool he remembered seeing her on last. Her dark brown hair was primed up her head in a strict bun, not a strand out of place. An inky blue coat complimented her pale skin, and a pair of riding breeches hugged her legs to the last curve. Sleek, black boots caught residual light from the outside world, glinting when she uncrossed her legs.

"I have to give it to you for fooling Xyris for as long as you have," the woman said. The name twanged inside Rhys' sluggish mind. He wasn't the best person to talk to upon waking up. "She must be getting old to have let a measly fool like you slip past her senses."

Xyris. The Sovereign? And if they knew each other enough to call the other by name—one that's already lost to people and to the years—then, this woman couldn't be anyone else.

She was the Heiress.

When Rhys failed to give a coherent answer, she gave another soft laugh. This one wasn't amused. It wasn't mocking, either. It was just...void of humor to even be considered a laugh. Maybe it's just a breath out of her lips. She craned her neck to the ceiling, making Rhys realize he's inside the same tent he'd crashed, and that the lights have never really dimmed despite it being close to night time in the outside world. Did she...manipulate time inside this space so she could have a heart-to-heart with Rhys? Touching.

"I assure you, dear Rhys," the Heiress continued, her eyes sparkling with a hidden malice. For once, he was glad it wasn't directed on him. "The Sovereign is not going to go easy on you."

Sweat started watering his hairline, as if the heat of the beach found a way past the entrance in the rock marker. Just being in the same room as this woman made the hairs on his arms stand up to their tips, his gut twist into guilty ribbons, and his muscles tense up until they're rigid and unable to move. He hated it. Hated feeling fear. And dread. And the uncertainty of his fate.

He should get out of here. He had to at least try.

Hiding his efforts by swallowing his grunts and keeping a straight face, he tugged at the controls over his legs. They followed, starting from the wiggles of his toes up to the slight shift of his thighs. Ever so slowly, he removed his legs from their splayed stance. The Heiress didn't notice. Rather, she had too many things on her mind to start caring.

She stood up and dusted her breeches even though it's free of any spots. Maybe she's dusting off her conscience, if she still has one. "It's tempting to give you an easy death just to spite Xyris," she said more to herself than to Rhys. It's insulting—that's what. If they're going to discuss his doom, he should have at least a say in it. Like, requesting to not be put in the middle of the Calcan desert and have an aksaba die on him while he's still on it. "But I do not condone trespassing and the attempt for espionage."

"Tough choices, right?" Rhys blurted. The way the Heiress' lips parted out of shock told him she wasn't used to being interrupted out of her reverie by overconfident varichriais. "How about this—you let me have a word. My last one."

The Heiress cocked an eyebrow. "What can you possibly say that hasn't been said before?"

Rhys returned one of her signature smiles. Just a few minutes with this woman was enough to turn him into a reckless madman. Imagine living with herself for as many years as she did. No wonder she's loopy. "My last words are..." he angled his legs to start sprinting—with the chair in tow, gods be damned. "Rudik's breeches!"

Confusion must have flashed across the Heiress' face. He didn't have time to relish in it as his legs leaped from the ground, propelling the rest of his form forward. His head slammed against the Heiress' midsection, sending her sprawling to the ground. Dust flew in soft billows, making her cough. Then, a low growl replaced it.

She swiped her hand in a huge arc, heat crackling in the air between them as an unspoken spell brewed forth. Just what he needed. He dove straight at it, calling his own magic in the air. He twisted at the very last minute, poising the chair and his bound arms into the spell's trajectory. Wood snapped. Splintered. Sparkling debris—embers still burning with the last of the Heiress' attack—rained down on his hair. His magic swept into action, patching up the tears and burns on his skin.

"You lowly ingrate," the Heiress rose from the ground, her fists clenched. "You dare attack me?"

Rhys whirled to her, his synnavaim humming with such intensity underneath his skin. "Yeah," he said, keeping his smug smile...well, smug. It's harder than he expected. "I dare."

Instead of going ballistic, the Heiress' features relaxed. Her hair didn't come undone even with that bit of scuffle. What products did she use on it? Rhys could never keep his wild mop to stay put for once. His thoughts sputtered to a stop when the heat heightened enough to fry his skin and start a fire with it. Then, it dropped as fast into a cruel chill that even the brightest blaze couldn't quell.

That's when the Heiress lunged.

What happened to giving him an easy death? The thought ran in Rhys' head as he scrambled back, throwing a flimsy shield in front of him and deflecting one of the Heiress' attacks with another swipe. The tent shook and rustled, but none of their magic ever made it out. To an outsider looking in, it probably looked like just another tent. No one would have an idea of a fight brewing inside—a fight which he couldn't and wouldn't win.

What a sad ending would that be to Rhys Torlin's life? Skewered in an unknown tent. Again, not the best way to go.

He stumbled backwards, bringing up his hand to stop the Heiress from bearing down on him and cleaving his form in half. Her arms exploded with spell after spell, forcing him into a corner, which in retrospect, with the tent being circular, it didn't have. Orange light seeped past his fingers, whizzing in quick leashes. They wrapped around most of the Heiress' attacks, dissolving them to nothing but pretty sparks.

But using pure weaving energy wasn't going to prolong his life, or his strength. As he dispelled the most recent attack, his arms turned to metal and dropped to his sides. No more. He couldn't do it anymore. The Heiress dropped to the ground a few feet away. The smirk on her blood-red lips told him she knew he had reached his limit, and that it's something she's been waiting for. She didn't even look winded—she's as fresh as a newborn day. When she spoke, her voice didn't contain a hint of a huff.

"Well, that's something I don't see every day," she crooned. Some strands started sticking out of her bun—that's enough of an achievement for Rhys. He could say he won now. "Unfortunately, I'm starting to grow a little bored of it."

Ah, kept alive for the sole purpose of entertainment. Rickety old villains usually did that, which only proved his point to himself.

The Heiress raised a hand, and like clockwork, the whites on her eyes disappeared into the literal cloud of ink eating at her eyeballs. Soon, her entire eyes were black, like pure stadian against beige skin. Words started pouring from her lips, the air turning more and more electric the longer the string got. Rhys couldn't decipher a single word, so it could only be one thing. The Ancient language. In the flesh.

And anything involving the extinct language used in spells, it'd be wise to be long gone before the effect hit the ground.

Run. He should run.

He scrambled to his feet and lurched towards the tent's exit. He half-expected the flap wouldn't budge when he would try to lift it, but his fingers closed around it and it flew to the air when he threw it back. Behind him, the Heiress started glowing in an ethereal pink light. It's terrifying and awesome at the same time. Talk about character. He should learn a thing or two from her save from genocide.

He stumbled out of the tent, heart pounding against his chest. Out of here. The exit. The door. He should find that. Come on. Focus on running. The Heiress wasn't far behind. Something exploded to his right, bathing his vision with red light and gray plumes of smoke. That couldn't be—

Something flashed in his periphery. He swerved away just in time for a spear to arc past his ear and stick to the spot where his foot had just been. The rest of the camp was after him? Wow. That's an achievement.

He circled a tent and came across another platoon of mindless people. Fairies, humans, half-bloods—it's a complete mix. The Heiress drained him of his reserves after forcing him to use pure weaving energy, so the best he could do now was to throw his arms over his head and make a mad dash towards the exit. If he got out, who's to say the Heiress would leave him alone? Was the only reason the Sovereign wasn't doing anything to him was because he was in Cardovia's clutches?

Should he just join the organization and pretend he came here to fulfill that goal all along? That might be one way to save his poor life.

Fire rained down from the artificial heaven, singeing his hair when stray spurts found him. He flapped his wings in response, stirring up the wind and propelling him forward. His feet barely touched the ground, but he dared not rely on his wings entirely. One rightly-aimed spell from behind, and he would lose control of his wings and end up with more bones to heal than when he focused merely on using his two legs.

A sword tip slashed past his neck, almost slitting the important nerve in it. With gritted teeth, he reached up, grabbed the blade by its edge, and yanked forward. Sharp pain lashed in his palm but he ignored it, jabbing his pointed elbow back. Bone hit bone and a grunt followed.

The stone jamb flitted in the corner of his vision. A gasp flew out of his lips as he swerved towards it. Something streaked past his vision and a large comet fell to the ground in a huge collision. Dust flew into the air, forming a hazy veil on the chaos. Rhys cursed and swatted at the air in a poor attempt to force it to clear.

When the haze settled with a quiet hiss, the Heiress stood at the center of a massive crater, power humming from her form and the trail curling in and out of her. Did she just....destroy her own camp? Well, if she's as powerful as she claimed to be, she'd probably fix it in a day or two. No worries. As long as she was able to deal with the peasant.

The Heiress pointed her fingers at Rhys, unspeakable magic coiling from her soul, ready to eliminate anything standing on her way. Her mouth formed the words. She only needed to say it aloud. Explosions wracked the entire camp, scattering the spectating audience with a wave of panic. Fumes splashed to the sky, thick and angry like storm clouds about to give way. This time, they weren't pink or green or orange.

They were purple.